


Fermata

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Fermata (Hold) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:08:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's running a fever. Sam's worried. Gremlins suck.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fermata

" _Jesus_!" Sam gasps, barely getting his arm around Dean in time. He manages to keep his brother from toppling over and landing on his face in the parking lot, but it's a near thing. "I thought you said you were okay!"

"Mmm," Dean grunts, getting his feet sluggishly back beneath him. "I _am_ okay."

"Bullshit," Sam mutters. He'd already gotten the key in the lock, and he uses his free hand to turn it, shoving the door open with his hip and hauling Dean inside. The lock clicks heavily behind them, and Sam feels Dean's forehead with the back of his hand, his gut clenching with new anxiety at the heat against his skin. "You're running a fever, man."

"Yeah, well. 's not a _real_ fever," Dean points out reasonably. When he shoves Sam away and tries to stand on his own, it just sends him tilting towards the floor. Sam swears and dashes forward, barely managing to intercept his brother's trajectory and land them both on the bed instead.

"It's real enough," Sam grouses. "Why the hell can't you ever follow a plan? A _simple_ plan, Dean. All we had to do was wait outside the cave until the smoke drove them out of hiding."

"Gremlins are tricky," Dean mumbles groggily. "Might've had another way out."

' _They're also venomous_ ,' Sam wants to point out, even though Dean's foggy, feverish state is evidence enough of that. When Dean scoots more securely onto the bed, Sam lets go and watches him slither towards the pillows and curl onto his side.

"I'm gonna call Bobby," Sam announces, standing and digging in his pocket for his phone. Not that Bobby will say anything he doesn't already know. He just really needs to hear that graveled, confident voice telling him that no, Dean's not going to die from a Gremlin bite: he just needs to sit still until his body—or his soul, or whatever—has time to metabolize the venom.

"Get the hell back here," Dean grumbles, and Sam gives him a sharp look.

"It'll just take a second."

"No." And suddenly Dean sounds exponentially more lucid. "Put the phone down and get over here. 'm cold."

"You're probably running a record temperature, dude," says Sam, but he's already setting his phone on the table and moving back towards the bed. He can see Dean shivering when he gets closer, hard enough that he winces in sympathy, and it occurs to him that he doesn't know what he's supposed to do to help. Dean is lying on top of the comforter, so Sam can't pull the covers up to cover him. He settles for scooting close and sitting against the headboard, marveling at the impossible wall of heat radiating from his brother's body.

The side of Sam's leg presses along the length of Dean's back, and Sam shifts and toes off his shoes—wishes he'd remembered to ditch them before he sat down—and kicks them to the floor. Dean's shoes aren't on his feet anymore, and Sam realizes he didn't notice his brother taking them off.

"The hell are you doing back there?" Dean asks, voice sleepy and cranky and shivery all at once.

"Sorry," says Sam, and goes back to sitting quietly, uncomfortably still.

It feels weird being this close to Dean for longer than the time it takes to drag his brother out of danger. They don't do this anymore—don't share each other's space the way they did when they were kids. It's different now, for reasons Sam maybe isn't thinking about too hard, and sitting here in the glow of his brother's fever-heat feels like breaking the rules.

"This really isn't what I meant when I told you to get back here," Dean says, startling Sam from his thoughts. "What good d'ya think you're doing jus' sittin' there?"

"Huh?" Sam says.

"Still cold," says Dean, managing to sound like Sam is stepping on his last nerve despite the slight slurring around the edges of his words. "What's the point of you being such a Sasquatch if you can't share a little body heat?"

"Dean, what the hell?"

"For christ's sake," Dean mutters, twisting around enough to get hold of Sam's far arm and drag him forward. It makes Sam contort his torso strangely until it occurs to him to slide further down the bed and let Dean's stubborn tugging pull him onto his side.

"Oh," he realizes. And yeah. This is definitely against the rules.

But Dean's body is still shaking, helpless against the unnatural chill, and now that Sam gets it—now that he's here—he tucks his arm around Dean's stomach, pressing close and tight along Dean's back.

"That's better," Dean sighs, and Sam's heart gives an anxious twitch in his chest. He wonders if Dean can feel it from this close.

Which is a silly thing to wonder: of course he can.

Sam consoles himself with the calming, but unlikely, possibility that his brother won't remember this in the morning. Dean will fall asleep any moment now, and Sam will extricate himself as carefully as he can. He'll sleep in his own bed, and wake up to a world that's not quite so full of Dean the Sleepy Snuggle Monster.

"You need to lighten up, Sammy," says Dean, covering Sam's hand and patting it a couple times, reassuring and uncoordinated. "Always gonna be somethin'. Gremlins or witches or demons or every other goddamn thing."

Sam supposes that's meant to be profound, but he doesn't have the heart to tell Dean it failed.

"Go to sleep, Dean," he says tiredly, and surprises himself with a wide yawn. Dean's hair tickles his cheek when he settles back against the pillow, and Dean's body still feels too warm in his arms.

"You better not've moved when I wake up," says Dean, echoing Sam's yawn with an even wider one of his own. "Don't want to find you across the room in the wrong bed."

' _The wrong bed_ ,' Sam's mind repeats helpfully, and he's not sure if he wants to laugh or groan. Either way he can't win, so he settles for sighing against his brother's neck.

"G'night, Dean," he mutters. Somehow he knows the second Dean drifts off.

Sam lies there well into the night, holding his brother close and keeping silent, watchful vigil.


End file.
